


Diamond Dust

by GhostPatches



Series: The Wolf Who Swallowed A Star [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Feral Behavior, M/M, Slow Burn, Werewolves, Wilderness Survival, space fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-09-21 03:22:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17035655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostPatches/pseuds/GhostPatches
Summary: Shiro pauses on a ledge, closes his eyes to try and enjoy the short, mild breeze. It cools the sweat on his skin. A splash of color draws his attention and he peers at it. It looks like blood on the rock, mostly dried. He wets a finger and dabs the spot, before tasting whatever came off on his finger. There’s something familiar about it, and Shiro almost swears it tastes like- but no, that can’t be right. Another of his senses must be damaged.Besides, he tastes something he does know in there. Galra.His mind is playing tricks on him.Shiro barely remembers a time before instincts were his entire existence. The tides are changing though and fate seems to be trying to bring him something. He doesn't know if it's a gift or a curse. A thread of hope or damnation. But he's going to see this through to the end.





	1. Chapter 1

Blood slides, twists down along his fingers, gathering for only a moment at the fingertips, before dripping down, away, to the ground. 

It’s slow, thick. Warm against the chilled air.

His fingers clench tight into a fist, then release.

He brings the blood up to his lips, tongue flicking out for a quick taste. He recoils, hand retreating. It tastes rank, decayed. The thing is sick. 

The corpse is sprawled to his right. Head at a fatal angle and the blood slowing from the wound on its side. Shiro drops the sharp rock he’d been holding and wipes the blood off on the beast’s coat, grimacing. 

Somewhere deep inside, there’s regret, but it doesn’t weigh out against firm, calculated survival. The creature, whatever it was, was sharp in shape, the type of sharp that comes from a lack of resources, of failing to provide for itself. 

From sickness eating it from the inside out.

Maybe this is a kinder fate. 

If kinder fates exist. 

He turns away, wetting dry lips. 

His current location is down a steep chasm between imposing rock faces. He should be able to get a decent view point from the top of one. Shiro glances back at the corpse, then moves on.  
A water source would be nice. The few glimpses of trees and foliage, dense and guarded, means there’s moisture in this place. And moisture means water. Water gathers at some point. He hasn’t seen a pond or lake yet.

The rock walls rise with a single-minded purpose, dimming and blocking the sunlight. He tracks along one side, eyeing any area that could possibly be a way up. There’s no path that will get him all the way to the top. He retreats back to the opposite side, hoping that luck will be more favorable. 

A way presents itself. A sharp switchback-like way up the rock, with the help of stubborn trees growing from bleak conditions. If he slips, the fall down will be fatal or result in a grievous injury. 

Shiro’s jaw tightens. He reaches up, blood-dried fingers gripping onto a ledge, and he hauls himself up. He pauses near one of the first trees, small, gnarled, and jutting out from the rock. There’s a slight breeze. It rolls across his shoulders and neck. 

There’s one slip towards the end, foot losing hold, and fingers grasping wildly onto one of the last trees. A tiny, white branches snaps, free-falling back into the dry gorge. He spares it a fleeting thought and finishes the last scramble to the top. 

The view is decent. He recognizes nothing he sees. This is a new place. New dangers. Unfamiliar terrain. If it isn’t, then it was before his time and it doesn’t matter. Bottom line, he’s going to need to be vigilant. 

Large, steep hills are his starting point. The land dips into a valley before him, small hills and trees rolling along its belly. A small lake dimly reflects in the daylight. Relief washes through him. 

After the valley, the ground pushes upwards again, into a ridge he can’t see across. But there are mountains in the distance. He glances down at his wrist, where the compass is permanently strapped. The blue line points straight across the valley, towards the mountains. 

Something rises out in the distance alongside them, stretching high. He squints, trying to get a better gauge of what it is. Shiro can’t tell if it’s a strangely shaped rock formation or some kind of tree. If it’s rock, it’s very uniform and round in size. If it’s a tree, it towers over the land and reaches up to the heavens, as some sort of guardian. 

It would rival the mountains.

Movement to his right pulls his gaze. A small, long, short legged creature skitters close by. Its black leathery nostrils flaring in his direction. 

The blood. 

Shiro’s lips peel back and he offers it a toothed sneer. 

It backs off, hovering a safer distance away. 

It can have the corpse. He wants the lake.

 

The descent down to the valley is rife with uneven ground and protruding rocks. He lowers his body, centering his gravity closer to the ground. The sun is somewhere up high. There’s no telling what kind of day cycle this place has, not until he’s spent more time here. 

He hopes it’s not another planet with almost eternal sunlight. 

It had grated on his nerves, chafed his reasoning, lit a restless, twitchiness inside of him. 

Shiro pauses on a solid out-cropping of bone-white rocks, lifting his head up. There’s nothing discernable that he can smell. Nothing obvious, anyways. He scans the area, trying again to get a better understanding of his relation to the forest and lake. 

No sound, no movement. There’s a chance he’s the only one in this area. A blessing more than a curse. 

He moves to hop off the rocks, but a glint in the light catches his eye. Alarm courses through him and he drops quickly, landing in a manner that will allow him to move immediately, if need be. 

Nothing happens. 

His muscles ease up and he straightens, curiously peering in the direction the glint had come from. Hidden there among the rocks is something. He moves closer, head tilted. It’s a weapon, specifically a knife, made from a kind of metal he doesn’t recognize. The hilt is a black and there’s a symbol or crest below it, resting high on the blade. 

Shiro considers it a moment longer, then reaches down, fingers carefully gripping the hilt. It’s balanced, solid.

He’s seen a lot of daggers, knives, and such, but this is different. Unique. Or maybe he just hadn’t seen this before. 

One never knows what will become useful. 

He takes it with him. 

By the time the sun seems to have rolled along the sky, shadows now reaching further with metaphysical fingers, Shiro has gotten himself turned around at least three times. It’s almost impossible to discern where he’s going, where the path he noted to move further up is. The rocks are tall, blocking his view. 

The pointer on his wristband is only helpful in terms of endgame direction. 

Not where the best place to climb up out of this rocky chasm is. 

If nightfalls, it won’t be the worst place. 

But as much as he’s protected, he’s also caged in. 

Jagged rock clusters are not a prime confrontation spot.

Shiro has two botched attempts at climbing the rock croppings. The second one has him landing too far back on his feet and he goes down. His back collides with the solid surface, hard enough that he feels tender spots, maybe eventual bruises. 

The rock itself is proving to be a challenge. The outside coating is dusty and flaky, giving easily underneath his fingers.

Once he’s back on his feet, he huffs lightly, jerking his bangs from his face. He glances upwards, at the sky, and there’s clouds slowly drifting in. There’s a tint of deep, promising gray in them. The kind of color that says something will happen. 

He sucks on his teeth, presses his tongue against the back of the upper set, and tries again. This time, he gets a solid grip, and begins hauling himself up the incline. At the top, he pauses, lying on his back. His fingers are coated in the flaky rock dust. He stares for a moment, then tries to wipe it off on his leg. 

There’s an odd reddish hue in the sky and clouds. He thinks of sunsets long ago in a desert. Brilliant reds bleeding into vibrant yellows that eventual get swallowed by purple. A hollow pain aches somewhere deep inside of him. 

But it isn’t sunset yet. It feels nothing if not foreboding. 

He rolls over onto his knees and pushes up. He scents the area again with nothing catching his attention. The view is better from here, allowing a farther scope than the previous one. The land has failed at any attempt to be calm. It’s hills, and hills, and hills. He thinks he can spot a few valleys, but they dip far enough he can’t distinguish what’s in them. 

Mountains line the distance. They’re not as severe as mountains he’s seen previously, like the ones on the water planet they’d been to two Hunts ago, but they stand tall with rounded tops. They’re pleasant, welcoming, less foreboding. 

Trees line the hills, in clusters, and between the clusters is what seems to be shorter foliage. Closer to the mountains the trees begin to pack together to form dense forest with trees of varying heights. 

The tall standing object catches his eye and his best assumption is that it is a tree. A very large tree, maybe as tall as the mountains. Maybe taller. It’s hard to tell from how far away he is. There’s a fine mist coating everything after a certain elevation, which swallows the the top of the massive tree. 

He breathes deeply, staving off a bone-deep exhaustion, a weariness that sleep cannot heal. The blue light on the wrist band pulses lightly in that direction. 

The rock croppings, creating small chasms and uprisings, become a challenge. He gets into a pattern of carefully climbing down and then back up, one after another, after another. Find the best way down, find the best way up, regret a choice, maybe pay for it, and start the process all over again. 

The dusty film on all the rocks makes them slippery and Shiro is now covered in scrapes and cuts on all the sliding, the tumbling, he’s done. His muscles ache, but he wants to get as far as he can in the first few days. He wants to reach the lake as soon as possible, then he can take a moment and regroup.

Unless he runs across something.

Unless something catches up to him. 

Shiro pauses on a ledge, closes his eyes to try and enjoy the short, mild breeze. It cools the sweat on his skin. A splash of color draws his attention and he peers at it. It looks like blood on the rock, mostly dried. He wets a finger and dabs the spot, before tasting whatever came off on his finger. There’s something familiar about it, and Shiro almost swears it tastes like- but no, that can’t be right. Another of his senses must be damaged. 

Besides, he tastes something he does know in there. Galra. 

His mind is playing tricks on him.

The sun is beginning its cycle of setting and if there’s one thing he’s learned, from the years of these experiences, being out after dark in strange places is a recipe for disaster.

He’ll need to find somewhere to hunker down. 

There’s a small alcove he discovers. It’s higher up, takes some climbing to get to. It’s not as protected as he’d like, but it’s better than nothing. He’ll have a vantage point, be able to see anything before it sees him, unless it comes from above. 

It’s a chance he’ll have to take.

Once he’s made it up to the alcove, he settles down, back to the wall. The temperature is dropping, breath frosting lightly in the air. The clouds have thinned out, leaving a clear, bright moon hung in the sky. Shiro watches it, feeling both soothed and yet itchy. He wants to relax, stretch his limbs out and rest without keeping a thread of adrenaline twined deep inside. He wants to get up, wants to run, wants the searing pain in his lungs.

But he stays where he is. 

It’s quiet. Not in a menacing way, strangely, as he’s come to expect. Just quiet in a way that comes as a surprise, when you stop and realize that there’s nothing, just silence. It rests on him, gently. 

His gaze drifts to the moon. He’s seen so many moons hanging in so many different skies. Ones as red as the blood in his veins. Ones as vibrant purple as morning glory’s. Ones that were sickly yellow, like decayed teeth. 

This moon, its jagged, as if it has survived some terrible event. Deep scars, dark spots, and an uneven outline. It’s a survivor, he thinks. It’s still there, grasping onto a quiet existence. 

But it’s the color that’s most drawing. It reminds him almost of home, of somewhere that seems almost non-existent now. It’s a blue, an icy-pastel blue that just shines in the sky, pouring light down over the landscape. Reflecting off the bone-dust rocks. Everything is ghostly, yet comforting. 

It’s the type of moonlight that makes one want to reach out, cup their hands together, and let the moonlight pool there. Like liquid glass. It’s the type that you imagine you can scoop off the ground, that you can drink. 

Maybe at one point his ancestors could. 

Shiro exhales, long and tired. 

His mind, his emotions, are torn between the relief at being away from his confines. Being turned out onto an entire planet. Freedom, in a sense. But on the flipside, the only reason he’s here is for entertainment. 

Sometimes, he dreams of escaping on one of these alien landscapes. Of being left behind, of being forgotten, of finally evading retrieval. He’s survived plenty to figure out how to keep himself alive.

But that’s just wishful thinking. 

He reaches out, from the shadow of the alcove, and catches the rays of moonlight on the tips of his fingers. 

Tonight, he’s allowed this moment. 

 

Morning comes in a pinkish hue, spreading across the sky like a blush. Nothing approached him during the night, though he heard the soft scrape of claws down below the alcove. Sounded like small scavengers, nothing truly concerning. 

He stares out at the rocks surrounding him. But everything still looks the same. He makes sure to grab the knife he found. The violet symbol glitters in the soft morning light. It’s lovely, really. 

Once he’s climbed above the alcove, Shiro sets himself on a course towards the east, towards the lake. He’s descending into the valley and with luck, maybe the foliage will have something that’s edible. 

He’s been fortunate nothing has killed him yet, in terms of organic plant life. Some of the things he’s eaten on previous planets made him incredibly sick, but nothing fatal. 

It feels as if he’s tempting fate. 

Bushes begin to appear, more robust ones, the further down he gets. Trees thicken up, more branches and leaves bulking them out. He investigates, finding nothing of interest. He wonders if most creatures here are predators. But even if that’s the case, something somewhere along the food chain needs an herbivore diet. 

Winged creatures are present in the early morning. They move quickly, making it hard to pin down what they look like exactly. He thinks he spots four wings on them. A long body. Short neck. Rounded face. Bat-like, his mind supplies. But with a little more bulk and more limbs and wings. 

They range from a light gray to a mottled gray-white. He considers how hard it’d be to catch one and decides it lands on the wasted energy and time side. There has to be more things that would be more viable choices. They’re too quick and alert.

The ground eases up as he continues. The foliage becomes more of an obstacle and he pushes through parts he can’t move around. They’re sprawling bushes with sharp-outlined leaves. He picks a few off, rubbing them between his fingers.

There’s no definitive scent, or at least, nothing his nose can pick up. Which could be the problem, really.

A waxy films coats the leaves. He waits a bit, sees if his skin is irritated by it. When nothing happens, he drops the leaves and moves on. 

The trees become more and more alive with the odd clicks and chatters of the four winged creatures. Their voices resemble wood blocks clicking together. It sets Shiro on edge. It steals his focus away from listening for anything else, softer sounds that are more ominous. Crunches of dirt, the shift of leaves, things that mean either larger beasts or groups.

He spots a taller, four legged animal near one of the trees. Its body is lean, ribcage and bones accentuated, its tail a long furred thing, curled towards it’s rump. It has paws and a dusting of longer fur right above them. The face tapers to a triangle nose. It’s a dusty, dark brown with the strangest silver eyes. 

It’s standing on its hind legs, eating something far up on the side of the tree, near clusters of vines.

Shiro watches, interested.

It’s not leaves, it’s something that makes a crunching sound. 

He crouches down near one of the bushes, peering at all the trees, trying to spot more vines. The tree it eats from, he finds, is different than the others. It’s skin is a swirled pattern, with a very thick trunk. The branches start high up, almost out of reach of the creature, unless its standing on two legs. 

Waiting won’t do him any good.

He stands, and the creatures ears swivel towards him. It retreats back onto four legs, staring at him with tense muscles. 

Not a predator then. Maybe an omnivore. 

They watch each other. Shiro sizing it up and knowing its doing the same to him. 

Step closer.

A muscle twitches.

Another step closer. 

It huffs, stomps a paw.

Shiro huffs back. 

It moves away from the tree, backing up to keep an eye on him.

The staredown continues with the beast a safe distance away. Shiro investigates what’s been left on the ground. It’s a round shaped fruit or nut. It’s hard to tell. He crouches again, keeping one eye on his beast companion, and picks up the remains of what it’d be eating. 

It’s a light yellow, or rather, the outside of the thing is. The outer shell is hard, almost like a nut, but thinner than a coconut. The inside of it is fleshy, pear-like, and a vibrant pink-red. There’s a big divot in the flesh, as if a seed used to be there. 

Shiro glances back to the beast hovering nearby. He notes the jaws, tapered, yes, but he can see a large jaw bone. He suspects the mouth opens wider than he thought originally. Why it would consume the seed and not the flesh passes briefly through his mind. 

The ache in his stomach is enough to test if the flesh of this fruit is safe. He doubts he’d be able to eat whatever core it has. 

He shuffles back, fruit cradled in one hand. The beast’s ears lilt forward, those silver eyes flickering over him, and it moves forward again. 

It should be more skittish of him. It should be wary.

But it isn’t, and that both unsettles Shiro and yet adds relief. 

He doesn’t smell like danger to this animal. 

The fruit-flesh smells mostly sweet with just a hint of tartness. He flicks his tongue against it. It tastes much the same. No burning begins, or itchiness, or anything averse. Shiro opens his mouth, decides to take his chances, and bites into it. 

It’s very mild, but it’s not bad. 

He picks pieces off the hard outer shell, watching as the beast circles the tree, ears up, nostrils flaring as it looks up along the trunk. It pauses, finally, after circling three times, then with a great movement, it leans back onto its haunches, tail swinging out for balance. The front paws come to rest on the trunk and with its body extended, it’s much, much larger than Shiro guessed. 

The neck extends, as if it was hunched this entire time. It’s reaching for something. Shiro leans, trying to get a good look at what it is. It must be one of the fruit. 

With how the creature is built, and that the fruit grows on a vine, he thinks it probably grows high out of reach of most beasts. 

There’s a soft snap, vine stem moving, a soft plop as a fruit falls, and the creature lowers itself back to the ground. It sets the second round yellow fruit on the ground, and the mouth opens enough at the front to show to a set of hardy front teeth. They dig through the flesh, until an odd green orb can be seen. The rest of the fruit is discarded and the creature takes the orb into its mouth, and he’s right, he can hear the harsh cracking of the orb inside of its mouth. 

The flesh in his hand is gone. His mouth salivates for the discarded fruit, but there’s no gauge on if this creature will get territorial if he gets too close. He’s pushed his luck. 

The beast watches him as it chews, tail lazily flicking one way, then the other. It swallows, pauses, then exhales loudly in his direction. 

Shiro makes no answer. He remains in a lower posture, a less threatening one. It turns, walking away, and once it’s far enough, he slips forward, scooping up the remains and devouring them. 

The ache in his stomach protests at the sudden introduction of nutrients, but it’ll settle down. He thought he’d be used to this by now. But the down times between Hunts ruins any endurance he can build up. 

He investigates the tree. 

The vines curl and wrap all along the trunk. Not the kind that slowly, over time, take life away. They’re smaller, almost more gentle. He can see pale yellow orbs hanging up high. They’re out of reach. No branches grow far enough down to allow someone to climb up and get the fruit. They’re reserved solely for whatever that four legged beast was, or if there’s tree dwellers. 

Shiro stares at the fruit for a bit longer, walks around the tree twice, pushes up onto his tip-toes, then decides that yes, it is out of his reach. There is no leverage to climb it. Throwing something is risky and there’s not much around heavy enough to knock one free.

It’s a viable food source, but dependent on factors he’s not thrilled with. 

He gathers the remains of the second dropped fruit, eats some of it, then stashes the rest in the pocket of his longer overshirt. 

A winner’s spoil he was allowed to keep from a previous Hunt.

The forest remains relatively sparse compared to some. Maybe it’s just the area, and near those mountains it’ll thickens up. He investigates the plants but none of them seem to be fruit bearing. 

If he can’t find a solid way of sustaining himself on the wild plants, then he’ll have to engage the others more. That brings a higher risk, from both the runners themselves and the beasts. As a rule, Shiro avoids confrontations as much as possible. The landscapes offer plenty aside from his fellow runners. 

And the Hunters, well.

Well.

He wanders, in the direction of the lake. Pauses occasionally, listens, watches. The four winged creatures pop up from time to time. He spots tracks that are probably the pawed-fruit eater. Are they pack animals, he wonders.

The sound of water catches his attention and he stops, turning his head in the direction it comes from. It doesn’t sound loud, like a large body of moving water. But it’s enough for him to hear it. 

It’s a small creek, trickling along the forest floor, cradled between dirt and rock. It’s clear and reflects the sun peeking through the sparse trees. 

He peers around. He’s alone.

He moves forward, lowers himself a bit, remains on high alert. 

The water is cold enough he jerks back at first. It feels as if it’s been poured from a cup of pure ice. His fingertips feel numb and he rubs them along his pant leg. 

Will the lake be this cold?

He offers up a small thanks to the universe for his ancestry. 

It stings his teeth, freezes his throat, and his eyes water. He gives it another moment, letting the chill subside until he can take another mouthful. 

There’s movement on the opposite of the creek and his attention shoots to it. But it’s only another of the pawed-fruit beasts. Two of them, actually.

They look at him, sniff the air, tails slowly waving from side to side, then move on. They nose around trees, and when nothing catches their attention, they move on. Process repeated. 

Shiro watches them, slowly gets up, stepping over the creek. He follows along behind them, for a lack of anything better to do, really. They’re heading the right direction of the lake and maybe, if he stays close, they’ll demonstrate more food options. 

Ones he can eat, anyways. 

They meander among the trees, away from the creek. The trees and bushes clear up some, and he can see more rocks. Not as dramatic as the ones he’d climb previously, but a small area of them. 

The beasts carefully pick their way through the rocks, pausing to let their ears flicker around, then moving.

There must be predators out in this area. 

It’s a good hunting ground, really.

The ground begins to slope down, a gentle slope. There’s a give in the rocks, the ground flattening out, and the thick trunk trees popping up once more. Shiro hopes the beasts are looking for more fruits.

Instead, they freeze, both heads swiveling towards the right, ears up. Shiro follows suit, gaze snapping in the same direction. There’s nothing there.

But he can hear something.

It sounds like a scuffle, something fighting, over the small hill and trees. 

The beasts only stand there a few seconds more then move, in the opposite direction. Shiro waffles, unsure. He glances after them, then back to where he can hear the commotion continuing. 

He moves towards the source.

Dark spots on one of the trees grabs his attention. Blood.

Whoever, or whatever’s over there, is hurt. 

Shiro crouches. Leaves stick to his hands as he creeps forward. The hill gives way to an area more similar to a small clearing. A very small one. He stops near a tree base.

It’s a confrontation. 

There’s a beast, around the same size or bigger, than the fruit-beasts. Its legs are shorter, heavier, with a compact body covered in heavy fur. It has a predators jaw and build. Deceivingly agile. 

He can’t see what it’s trying to kill. The prey is smaller than the creature and at this angle, Shiro can only see from the right rear. 

It’s pointless, really. A waste of time. He won’t fight something of that caliber over a prey corpse. Not unless it was really winded by the fight. 

He means to go, to try and pick up the fruit-beast tracks. 

But then he sees. 

Every muscle in his body goes rigid. There, beneath the beast, trying to hold its jaws at bay is a human.

A human. 

His thoughts are torn in two.

Rescuing this human has a great chance of being a fool’s errand. And he has been a fool before. 

But a human. 

The human isn’t going to win. All the blood must be theirs. Shiro draws himself up, muscles shifting as he launches himself from his hiding spot, down the slope. He’s within a few feet of the creature and the human when both their gazes slide to him, surprise mirrored in both sets of eyes. 

Shiro reaches out, one hand sliding under the ribcage, the second grabbing what is essentially the elbow, and he lowers his center of gravity, knees bending, before lifting up and pushing. The beast isn’t quite as heavy as he expected and it lurches with the move, crashing onto its side feet away. 

He’s on it before it makes it all the way up. A sharp hit to the throat, a swipe to the shoulder hard enough to crack the bone with his metal arm. He catches its muzzle as it swings around, fingers digging in until blood starts to pool.

The beast begins to try and escape his grip, limbs coming up to push him back, but Shiro lets go. It falls back, stumbles to its feet, and flees. 

He watches it go, huffs to himself. The blood is warm on his hand and his mind flickers back to the previous day. Something inside of him, that deep seated well of ever moving, ever searching, drifts with something ominous in nature.

Shiro shakes it off. 

He turns to find the human still on the ground, but propped up by the elbows. They look to be a young male, his age, maybe younger. Adult, not adolescent. 

He’s dirty, bloodied, and looking wary of Shiro. Not a bad reaction, really. Shiro comes closer, noting how the stranger’s muscles tense up. He stops a short distance away and crouches down.

There appears to be a shoulder injury and a thigh injury. The dark form fitting suit is torn in those two spots, everything else is hidden. . The severity he cannot gauge. But one of those wounds must be older if Shiro had seen the blood yesterday before this confrontation. 

A chance of blood loss then. 

The stranger is sizing him up in return, gaze flicking over him. There’s no relaxation, he’s still on high alert. Shiro is in the position of power here. He’s not injured. He’s shown part of his skill.

“Who are you?” the stranger asks.

Helping him will slow Shiro down. He should chalk the save up to his good deed and move on. He stands, intending to do so. But something is holding him back, keeping him rooted to the spot.

He’s holding himself back. 

He doesn’t want to leave them here. 

Shiro has far surpassed the rhyme of ‘fool me once’. 

He turns back to the stranger, closes the distance, ignoring the defensive posture. He extends his hand, his flesh one, and waits. The stranger will have to make their own choice. Time falls into line with the pulse of blood in his veins. 

The stranger eyes the hand, then slowly reaches up, fingers sliding along Shiro’s palm. They wrap around his wrist. The grip is firm, strong, hinting of understated power. Shiro returns the grip and then pulls, noting the wince of pain on their face. 

Really, he’d prefer to just haul the human up and tote him around, but he suspects that at this present moment, with such little familiarity between them, that would be very unwelcome. Instead, he slides an arm under his shoulders, bolstering most of their weight. 

There’s a soft hiss from them and there’s a quick, fleeting stab of regret. They can deal with the injuries in a more secluded spot. Shiro doesn’t want a round two with the predator if it feels so inclined. 

The lake will be too ambitious for today. Priorities shift to secluded shelter, a bit of rest for the stranger, and appraisal of the injuries. 

Trying to navigate the rocks will be too hard. Going forward makes the most sense and maybe luck will favor them. 

Silence stretches between them. Shiro is focused on finding somewhere to stop and he assumes the stranger is focused on tolerating their pain. 

The mountains, visible on the horizon, catch the light’s deepening red. Shiro pauses, watching the way the light angles, reflects. It’s brazen, hearty. Strange, he thinks, how a place with such vibrant light contains such muted flora and creatures. 

It doesn’t leave a good taste in his mouth. 

“What,” the stranger prods, looking at him from the side. 

Shiro only exhales, sharp, punctuated, as answer. 

They can try and nest down in the flatter area or they can head to the right and nest down in the forested section. Flatter means he can see threats more easily, but they can also be seen as easy in turn. If there’s any wind, their scent will be carried with no obstructions. 

The trees and undergrowth will put some damper on that. 

Shiro won’t be able to smell anything coming. 

Bitterness begins to rise inside of him and he crushes it swiftly.

He turns them in the direction of the trees. It’s not as wooded as he’d like, but it will do. There’s an area where they can bed down with undergrowth to hide them. It’s stretched between two slender trees and a heavier fallen one. 

The stranger is settled with his back to the fallen log, wincing as he moves his left leg. “I’m sure that thing could navigate this area with ease,” he says.

Shiro levels him with a look. 

“Improvisation, got it,” he says.

The stranger still looks wary when Shiro crouches close to him, but he’s not on high alert. Mutual understanding that Shiro probably would have not intervened or just outright killed him after, if that was the intent. 

He still smells of blood and dirt. If they get to the lake, then they can get rid of the blood at least. 

His gaze drifts away from the wounds, the dried blood, the still fresh sweat, and to the rest of, well, his companion. That’s what it’s going to be. 

His build might be smaller than Shiro, but it’s all muscle. It’s an up kept, trained build. This isn’t some random passerby. A civilian. The stranger is trained for something. Maybe the first injury was a handicap. But that seems to go against how the Haxus run this entire operation. 

“So are we just going to play charades this entire time,” the stranger says, “or are you actually going to say something?”

Shiro watches him. Noting the intensity in the gaze. Just looking into another human’s face is unsettlingly comforting. It’s familiar, it tears open a wound somewhere inside of his body. There’s strength, a survivor in those blue-gray eyes. 

But it’s been so long since he’s had to communicate with anyone. At least anyone that he understands. He doesn’t remember having to speak at length in a very long time. 

He wets his lips, swallows. “Injuries?” 

The stranger’s eye brows raise. 

Shiro could hear the cracks and the rust in his own voice. He doesn’t need to ask. 

“That’s what you’re asking about first?” The stranger says. “My injuries.”

Shiro rolls his eyes. 

And then he waits, settles his weight back on his heels for better balance. The stranger stares back at him. They’re eyeing each other at this point and Shiro isn’t sure what the hang up is. 

“Thigh and shoulder,” he replies, finally, “Thigh is a shallow wound. Mostly just sore, happened before this. The shoulder, yeah, that’s the winner.”

Shiro reaches out slowly, touching the black material of his suit, wiping off some of the crusted blood. He shows it to the stranger.

Confusion flickers over their face. “Blood?” he guesses, then, “Blood loss?”

A nod.

“Oh.” He leans back against the hollow tree, posture relaxing, “Obviously there’s blood loss. Is it fatal? I don’t think so, but I have also said similar things in situations I shouldn’t have.”

A smile almost makes its way to Shiro’s face. 

He remembers the fruit in his pocket. The stranger looks curious as he rummages around in his pocket and produces the remains of what he’d been saving. It’s a little dried, but still good. The stranger stares at it as Shiro holds it out to him. 

Skepticism paints his face as he takes it from him. 

Shiro turns his attention away for a moment, listening to the forest around them. It’s quiet, well, as quiet as forests can get. They can dress themselves in a deathly silence, a thing terrifyingly surreal and displacing. But this isn’t that. 

This is an organic quiet. Things beginning to settle down. Things beginning to wake up. He glances back at his companion from the corner of his eye. 

The fruit was well received. Only a piece remains. 

“Hey.”

Shiro turns to look at him, head tilted just half an inch. 

The stranger is holding out the last piece of fruit to him. 

A ridiculous gesture, really. Shiro has fared better than this human. But it’s a generous gesture. It’s a word that Shiro removed from his vocabulary before he stopped using words. 

Kind. 

He takes it, tries to ignore the alarming spread of emotion. It bursts like veins crawling inside of his ribcage. 

It doesn’t taste as good as it does fresh. It’s food, it’s better than alternatives. 

The stranger’s gaze weighs down on him. It’s solid, it’s searching. 

“Keith,” he says, suddenly. “My name, it’s Keith.”

Shiro looks at him. Turns the word over in his mind. It’s so normal, so generic, he wants to laugh. Keith.

It sinks into him, a sharpness that hooks itself in his stomach, pulling at the flesh. 

“Usually that’s a sign to tell me your name,” Keith presses. 

The sky begins to darken. The red being snuffed out. There’s no blending of colors here, no fade into a deep midnight. The light is being devoured. 

“Here,” shiro says, “staying here.”

“Yeah, gathered that.”

He moves to settle down far enough away Keith won’t be eyeing him like a wounded predator in the presence of another. But close enough that if something happens, he’ll be as ready as he can be. 

The temperature feels colder than the previous night. 

The foreboding returns.

Keith seems to be fighting against exhaustion. 

He watches his eyelids droop, shoulders slumped. Something doesn’t seem right about this. Instinct is trying to guide him. He can’t see the beginning or the end, though. 

He rolls his jaw, inhaling softly. 

“Shiro,” he says.

It’s quiet, almost so quiet, Keith doesn’t catch it, but he looks up, eyes unfocused, but squinting. He swears he sees Keith mouth the word, but there’s no sound and the movement is too quick. He just closes his eyes, lips relaxed into something more pleasant, and leans his head back against the wood.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanted this to be really good for y'all but I failed. I hope you enjoy it none-the-less.

The early morning dawns with the same red that rolls across the landscape before night. It’s diluted, watery blood, laying across every rise, fall, and curve of the land. It grows along the bone-white rocks. Drips from the chalk-like trees. 

Shiro doesn’t particularly like it. 

Everything here looms. There’s tension, as if everything and everyone is waiting for something. It’s beginning to creep into his body. 

He wakes long before Keith. Rest never came to him. Instead, his mind is nestled in that limbo between anxious and sluggish. 

Dreams of waking to find Keith cold and pale, lungs long since stopped, plagued him. Dreams that he’d died long before, decay already dissolving his skin, erasing every human thing about him. 

He’d jolt awake, pulse erratic, chest tight, nausea swirling just under the surface. Pulse drowning out every sound. When it quieted, enough that it wasn’t the only thing surging in his mind, he’d hear the soft inhale and exhale of his companion, assuring him it was only dreams.

In the light of day,Keith looks the worse for wear. Skin pale as the rocks, dull without any shine. His hair is clumped from sweat, stray pieces sticking to his neck and face. Shiro can see the exhaustion outlined in his posture. 

His fingers twitch. The image digs deep inside of him like a finger sliding into a wound. 

He twists the emotion into a shape he can handle, hides them deep into the well of his being, and drags himself up off the ground.

Every scrape and bruise makes itself known, clamoring for his attention, and he groans. Climbing the rocks left their mark, or marks really, on him. Shiro adds up the bruises. Inspects the scrapes. Stretches his tired protesting muscles.

Hunger simmers low in his belly. 

His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. Rough, dry.

The creek shouldn’t be too far, but backtracking will put them at a disadvantage. His mind supplies memories of climbing rocks between the creek and their current location. Keith won’t be able to do that. Or Shiro suspects he won’t. 

The creek could run farther though. It’s not like he checked. Veering a little to the west won’t set them back much. 

He glances at the band on his wrist. The blue light is still a steady compass pointing northwest. 

Movement alerts him to his companion waking. 

Keith groans softly, struggling to right himself back into a sitting position. He favors his shoulder heavily and Shiro knows his suspicions were correct. Keith and climbing won’t be a winning combination. 

A rough exhale, face cradled in his hands, and then Keith murmurs, “Dehydrated.”

Look for the creek. Make headway to the lake. 

Keith looks up at him when he approaches. Still a little wary, but also tired. Shiro crouches down and tilts his head, motioning to Keith.

“If you’re asking how I feel,” Keith says, letting his head drop back against the log, “then there might be something wrong with your memory.”

Shiro dead pans. 

“Alright fine, scale of dying to dead, I’m somewhere between put me out of my misery and still alive.”

Shiro has half a mind to flick the back of his fingers against the shoulder wound, but refrains. Attitude means he still has energy. Keith, almost instinctively, shields his injuries away from Shiro. There’s nothing to be done until Keith allows it. 

He gestures out to the forest away from their hideout. 

“Give me a minute,” Keith says, pulling his legs up. 

He struggles to get on his feet. The adrenaline is gone, legs wobbling like a newborn calf. Keith sways hard to the right and Shiro grabs his good arm, lean muscle taut under his fingers. 

His hands retreat as soon as he finds his footing. Keith eyes slide shut, taking a moment to draw in deep steadying breaths. 

Shiro’s fingers flex. Phantom touch lingering.

Keith nods at him. “Alright, it’s your show.”

The four-winged bird-bats are out in swarms again. Clacking as they swoop overhead. Shiro tracks their movements. Are they herbivores or omnivores? 

Saliva swells in his mouth. 

Keith glances up at them, curious. It’s only fleeting, though and his gaze comes back to rest on Shiro. Shiro holds the gaze for a second, two seconds, then redirects his focus. A simmering intensity rests in Keith, mind never seeming to quiet. Restless. Gears eternally grinding away. 

Shiro thinks he might be the sole holder of that attention. He isn’t sure how to handle it. 

They pass near the small clearing where Shiro had found Keith. Neither mentions it, but he notes Keith glancing around the area, as if looking for something. He doesn’t appear to find what it is and Shiro doesn’t ask. 

There’s no creek. The rocks must have disrupted it. But instead, there’s a small gathering of water where the bird-bats are swarmed, wings fluttering like butterflies gathered around a puddle. It resembles a pond, but a pond with water clear enough to see down, down, down to a rocky bottom. 

The water’s so reflective, so crystal, it’s almost unsettling. It feels fake, unreal, but the fluttering and clacking of the bird-bats breaks that spell. 

The pond is pinned in by trees and rocks, which is why Shiro hadn’t seen it. The scent of moisture, or dampness, is moot. 

To him, anyways. 

He hears Keith working his jaw and they’re absolutely on the same wavelength. Shiro goes ahead, scouting the rim of the pond. Only the bird-bats are present. A small group flutters out of their way. 

He crouches. Threads of tension wind their way through his chest, looping themselves around each rib bone. Keith settles on one knee, motion stilted. Shiro watches him out of the corner of his eye. 

Silver glints from the water.

He pauses, liquid cradled in one palm, seeking out the reflection on the surface. 

It’s moving upward. 

It’s not a reflection. Something is in the water.

Shiro shoves Keith to the side. Hard enough he hears him skid across the ground. The surface breaks. He throws himself back as a hollow eyed, jagged mouth creature breaches. The jaws are wide open, water rippling down the head and teeth. The snap of teeth barely miss Shiro’s leg. 

The creature begins sliding back into the pool. A guttural, garbled sound cracking from its mouth. It slips back under without so much as a splash. Absolute silence. The creature disappears, blending in with the bed of the pool. 

Adrenaline courses through Shiro with all the force of shock. His muscles tremble as he stands there, eyeing the pool. He can still feel the gust of the creatures mouth shutting just inches away from him.

Keith.

He turns to find Keith put more distance between himself and the pool. He’s kneeling with one knee on the ground again, babying his injured shoulder. The shoulder that took the impact of the fall. 

After Shiro shoved him.

He grimaces. 

“Okay?” he asks, moving towards Keith. 

“What the fuck was that,” Keith says, “The water was crystal clear.”

“Okay?” Shiro repeats, but stops before he grabs Keith to inspect that he was no more damaged than he was before.

“Yeah,” Keith says, looking at him finally, “Fine.” He winces. “Though you didn’t have to shove me like you were launching me back into space.”

Guilt rubs raw.

“Sorry,” Shiro says. 

Nerves buzz loudly inside of him. Trying to crawl between muscle, slip out from the pores of his skin. That had been a close call. He looks back at the water longingly. The bird-bats are returning. They must not be big enough to be worth the effort for the beast. Plus they work quite efficiently at luring anything else to the water’s edge, making it appear safe. 

Frustration simmers at the surface. 

He knew better. 

Keith’s gaze is pointed at him. “Are you okay?” 

Shiro nods, shoving down the desire to bear his teeth and go straight back to the pool for a second round. A fair round. 

He exhales, sharp, pointed, eyes flicking back to the pool. He feels Keith track the gaze, then return back to him. 

“You’re really thinking of trying again,” he drawls, “you really are.”

He is. 

A dramatic, deep sigh spills from Keith as he rubs his hands over his face. A murmured ‘easier with my knife’ almost slips by unheard.

Shiro is suddenly aware of the presence of the knife under his jacket. Without another thought, he reaches under the jacket and produces the knife. Keith’s mouth pops open for a few seconds before emotion storms over his face.

“That’s mine,” Keith snarls, wounds almost entirely forgotten as he stalks towards Shiro. “Give it to me.”

The response is fueled by leftover adrenaline and a teetering defensive reaction to another predator, no matter how injured they are. Shiro’s lips peel back to flash his teeth at Keith, muscles tightening to hold his ground. 

“Give it back to me,” Keith repeats, expression flickering between mirroring Shiro’s display and remaining firm. 

There’s something else under there, something desperate that Shiro can’t pinpoint. The idea of Keith being in possession of the knife, having the ability to easily wound or even kill him strings anxiety through every part of him. 

But there’s a second part, instinctual, seeking, that wants to hand the knife over. 

The second part terrifies him, but it’s strong, it overpowers. It naturally trusts this stranger. 

The muscles in his arm jerk, shaking finely, as he offers the knife to Keith. Shiro has reigned in his posturing, expression relaxing enough that he’s not on the actively defensive. Keith snatches the knife from him, taking a step back. 

Keith’s relief can almost be tasted in the air.

He feels Keith eye him. “Look, for what it’s worth, I’m not going to stab you,” he tells Shiro, “at least not with some sort of cause.”

Shiro isn’t sure whether that makes him feel better or not. But the knife is now in Keith’s hands and there’s nothing more that can be done. 

The split is still hovering there, between anxiety and a strange bubbling of preening. It’s foreign, strange, a taste he’s had before but can barely remember.

He forces himself to let out a long breath, easing all the tension he’s holding. 

His companion is looking back at the pool, then looks to Shiro. “You want to give that thing a run?”

They might have a chance, even with Keith’s injuries. Shiro can take the brunt of the confrontation. Keith just needs to make sure he doesn’t get himself injured worse or killed. Shiro starts to re-think this idea.

“There’s a chance it might taste rank,” Keith says, facing him, “but I think I can suck it up.”

Shiro wants to point out that there’s easier prey out there, but the source of water is too tempting. 

“Think you can handle its size?” Keith asks.

A snort. 

He motions to Keith’s shoulder. 

“It’s fine,” Keith tells him. 

Shiro advances with quick steps, dipping low as Keith’s eyes widen and he moves to get into a defensive stance. As soon as he pulls his shoulder back, hand gripped around his knife, a hiss tears from his lips and he almost drops the knife. 

He barely even raised it.

Dominant shoulder. That’s a problem.

Keith nurses the shoulder, muscles slowly relaxing. Pain is still etched into the corners of his face, but he’s standing up right now. He exhales, slow, deep.

“Great, you made your point,” he says. 

There is no victory in Shiro. Just an ever growing bloom of concern. His gaze flicks back to the pool. They could go through all the trouble of killing the water beast only to find out it’s barely edible. That its diet doesn’t lend itself to being on the food chain for other larger predators, them included. 

With Keith’s injuries, they’ll want something substantial to eat. Shiro can try and bring down another creature. Something with less consequence. Something that wouldn’t put Keith in the path of adding more wounds.

Something that wouldn’t keep feeding the growth of Shiro’s worry.

Keith is searching his expression. “You don’t want to,” he says, tone growing more firm with each word. 

Because of me remains unsaid. 

Shiro turns to look at him. “Might be wasted,” he explains, “Not good.”

“Inedible,” Keith parses. “I guess there’s a chance.”

“Other options, better options,” Shiro stresses.

He hopes there are anyways.

They retreat from the pool. Shiro takes a moment to orient himself. They need to continue east towards the lake. Silence travels with them as they pick their way through the forest. Shiro keeps the pace slow for Keith and for any indication of foodstuffs. 

The silence shifts into an atmosphere of leaning over, of peering from around a wall. Shiro can taste the curiosity, the interest from Keith. He wants to say something, probably ask a question. Shiro surmises that he’s probably not used to initiating and carrying the conversation.

He flicks a look over his shoulder at Keith, eyebrows raised. 

Keith at least looks sheepish then. But instead of just launching into whatever he was focused on, he takes a moment. 

“You’ve never been here before,” he says.

Statement, not a question.

“But you’ve done this before,” Keith continues.

Shiro nods.

“How many times?”

Time has become lost to him. It exists between running wild on unknown planets and being kept in a windowless room. He quickly tries to sort all the Hunts he remembers. 

The eternal sun. The great water beasts. The pathways of wind. The fields of briars. Twin moons. The almost fatal Hunt. 

“Ten?” he says. 

Keith’s eyebrows start to climb. “Ten?”

“Ten,” he repeats. 

“How often does this happen?”

That, he cannot answer, so he shrugs. Long enough that this is what he is. 

“What’s the goal, anyways?” Keith asks, climbing over a fallen tree carefully. “I wasn’t told anything but good luck, really.”

Shiro stops, swings his gaze back to Keith, who in turn also pauses. They watch one another. Shiro wavering between shock and mild horror. They didn’t even tell him. He doesn’t know. He’s not supposed to survive. 

At least the captives thrown in are told. Are informed. Even if everything is against all participants wills. They know. 

Maybe, in some way, this is a blessing for Keith. To not know. 

“I don’t like that look,” Keith says, eyeing him. 

Shiro grabs for Keith’s arm, which is yanked away from him. He pauses, waits a moment, then motions for Keith to show him his wrist. Keith is watching him, annoyance, suspicion, and curiosity all drifting across his face. He does show Shiro his wrist.

It’s bare. 

“What are y-”

Shiro brings up his own flesh wrist. The dark band, with the glass face plate, reflects the light. The illuminated blue line points off to their left, steady. Keith stares at it, face rearranging into a frown. 

“Is it,” he seems to search for the words, “is it a compass?”

Shiro nods.

Keith sits with that. Shiro can see him working the information over, and over, and over. He wants to know what it is exactly that Keith’s parsing. What collectively does he know. It’s agitating, which in itself offsets Shiro. He doesn’t like it. 

An inhale, then, “There’s a goal. You don’t know anything about this place and you have a goal to find?”

Another nod. 

Something thoughtful passes over Keith. “Survive and get to the goal. Alright.”

“First,” Shiro says.

“First?” 

Shiro levels a stare at him. “First.”

“There’s more than just us?” The frown has returned. “How many?”

Shiro shrugs. “Depends.”

“It’s a competition, then?”

“Yes.” 

Shiro debates informing him about the Hunters and decides it can wait. Wait until he needs to. Understanding begins to blossom over Keith’s features.

“Wait, you’ve done this ten times? You’ve competed ten times?” 

Shiro isn’t sure why he’s bringing it up again. He hesitates, then nods.

Whatever Keith’s thinking, Shiro can’t figure it out. It flickers over the sharp features quickly, like light filtered through a window. 

“We’re heading northeast,” Keith says, eyes falling back to Shiro’s wrist. “You’re detouring.”

“Lake,” Shiro tells him. “Water.”

“Is there a time limit?”

He’s unsure how to answer that, so he doesn’t. They’ve stood around long enough. He motions for them to continue on and Keith follows after him, no reluctance, no hesitation. There does seem to be an air of dissatisfaction that Shiro ignored the question entirely. 

Silence falls between them once more. The ground begins to lose its flat top, dipping down and drawing back up. The trees begin to thin out and the tell-tale signs of approaching rocky terrain appear. 

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Keith breaks the silence, “that illegal games exist in the Umbera Market.”

“Gambling,” Shiro murmurs, noting the distinct bone white color of rocks peeking through the trees ahead. 

A sharp laugh pops from behind him. 

“You’d think this would be a spectator sport,” Keith says. 

Shiro only glances back at him. 

Keith catches the look. “... is it?”

He turns his attention back to the approaching rocks. They’re as dramatic as the first ones Shiro had to scale. The scrapes and bruises ache in some strange solidarity at the sight. He’ll still have to pick a path. Trying to just climb straight up won’t work, but there’s at least three ways up he thinks might work. 

“Shiro,” Keith says.

A simple word. A word that’s been connected to him all his life. A word that is a stand in for him. Represents him. 

It’s become as foreign as his own kin to him. It’s surreal, hearing it said so simply. Things twist and tangle themselves up inside of him. They clench, they ache. Shiro turns his head to the side to glance at Keith, gives him his attention. 

It demands it.

“Is this being watched?” Keith tries again. 

Shiro traces the back of his teeth with his tongue, then relents. “Yes,” he says. 

Keith doesn’t look too pleased about the answer. But it suffices for his question and he goes quiet. Shiro motions for him to stay where he is and goes to investigate the rock barrier that’s appeared. He tests each option up and finds that the second option is probably best. It still involves climbing, but less balancing acts than one and three. 

Also less of a sharp fall back down in case something does go wrong. 

He motions for Keith to follow. Sees the way Keith’s eyes flick up the rock wall. Hears him exhale through his nose. 

Maybe he should send Keith up first, keep an eye on him. There’s pride there, though, and the reception of that idea would probably be less than stellar. 

The rock, despite it’s dust and flake exterior, bites into his skin. He loses a line off his finger to a sharp edge. A light smudge of blood is left behind. Shiro nurses the throbbing scrape for a moment. 

The climb upwards is slow. They’re a third of the way up with Keith just a few paces behind him. It’s taking a toll on Keith. He can see the sheen of sweat, the tense muscles, the jaw clench from the pain. 

He hopes this will convince Keith to let him investigate his injuries. 

One last lick to the cut on his finger, and Shiro moves to grab onto the next ledge. Instincts peak before he hears anything. They have him glancing back at Keith out of the corner of his eye, just in time to see him miststep. His shoulder gives out, fingers slipping off the rock they were gripping.

His arm darts out barely snagging onto the hood of Keith’s sleek suit. It’s enough to steady him and keep him from tumbling all the way back down. His head is bowed, good arm babying the wounded shoulder. Shiro leans all his weight towards the rocks, holding them where they are until Keith is ready. 

When Keith removes his hand, there’s blood on his fingers. 

There’s a chance they won’t make it over these rocks. Not unless Shiro throws all etiquette into the wind. 

Pride has no place here. 

Shiro gives him no warning before he hauls Keith up to where he is. 

“Hold on,” he tells Keith.

His eyes widen, but he does as instructed, clutching onto Shiro’s shoulders. Shiro can feel the difference, one hand grips with solid strength and the other is light, muscles shaking beneath the skin. Too much strain put upon it. 

They grapple as Keith shifts his weight against Shiro’s, mindful of their position on the rocks. Shiro waits until Keith is settled, grip as solid as it's going to be. He draws in a deep breath, stretching his lungs, holding it, then exhaling and begins to climb again. 

His focus tries to flicker. The warmth of another living being. Weight that is not his own, that brings an aching sense of comfort. Pressure of fingers against his muscles. 

Keith tenses, and Shiro almost pauses. Hair sweeps against his ear and his bareneck as Keith turns his head to the side, away from Shiro.It’s soft. Soft as the mottled fur on the beasts he followed for days under the twin moons. 

He almost freezes. 

Sweat trickles down his temple. 

The sky is clear, outside of a few scattered clouds. The sun directly overhead. Keith stirs, angling his head towards Shiro a bit. 

Shiro can feel the question. 

He huffs and continues on, hauling them up rock by rock. There’s only one faulty grip that has Shiro grasping for a new hold. Another smattering of skin is sacrificed but it’s a small price to pay. 

They get to a point where Keith can slide back onto his own two feet. He does so, slipping away from Shiro. His expression is wide eyed, lips parted. He’s looking at Shiro in a way that Shiro can’t decipher. 

Surprise? Shock? Disbelief?

Shiro tilts his head.

“You-” Keith stumbles.

He waits.

Keith tries again, “You’re-”.

He’s confused by this point, trying to reason out what Keith’s trying to say. But Keith is quiet now, staring at Shiro with a strange look of resolve and ferocity. 

“Nothing,” Keith says, strangely composed. “It’s nothing.”

Shiro eyes him, but doesn’t push the matter. Whatever it was, Keith seems resolved over it. He moves on, hearing his companion fall into step behind him. The pad of footsteps behind him soothes him in a way that’s barely recognizable. 

But he grasps onto that small thread of emotion. 

Calm. 

The trees return, bolstered with confidence and their own space. There’s a new above ground creature in the branches. They’re medium-sized stature with bat-like wings, but scaled like reptiles. Interspersed with the scales are feathers, a thick crown of them around the shoulders. They bustle around in the branches, squawking at one another. They appear communal, even if they squabble with one another. 

A ruckus pulls his attention. One of the Scale-Bats is on the ground, wings raised, feathers fluffed and screeching at one of the long-bodied weasel-like scavengers. They’re fighting over something that Shiro can’t quite see. 

The weasel-esque scavenger warns off the Scale-Bats. The thing at its feet is roundish and pale green. It looks plant based instead of animal based. Shiro lunges, startling the scavenger. He flashes his teeth and the scavenger backs off, trying to puff itself up. It hops backwards, hissing, but Shiro doesn’t move. 

He reaches down and picks up the mystery item. It’s soft, fleshy. Almost like a pale, pale green bell pepper but longer. He inspects it, feels objects inside. The skin gives with some work and inside are opaque whitish round spheres. He holds on up, turning it around. It has some give to it, like a pea or a grape. 

The smell isn’t off putting. 

Either the outer shell or weird seed-fruit are edible, or both, if the confrontation between the two beasts is to be believed. Shiro chances a look back at Keith, who only looks on in interest. Keith shrugs and holds out a hand. 

Shiro dead pans. 

He turns away from Keith and plops one of the fruit-seeds in his mouth. It doesn’t taste bad. In fact, it really doesn’t have a taste at all. Which isn’t entirely pleasant, but not unpleasant either. It’s mostly just a somewhat firm consistency, like a pomegranate seed. But less flavor.

Way less flavor.

Waiting to see if there’s any timely consequences, Shiro investigates the outer shell of the not-bell-pepper. It has a mild sour smell to it. He tentatively takes a bite out of it. The muscles in his jaw and throat tighten up. He hacks, spitting the pieces out onto the ground, trying to scrub the taste off his tongue.

Rank. Absolutely rank. It has the taste of milk gone bad, but really bad. Few months bad. Forgotten somewhere in the fridge bad. 

“That bad?” Keith is peering at him. 

Shiro throws a grimace his way and offers the small round, tasteless fruits. Keith takes two of them, holding one up to examine it, before putting it in his mouth. His expression flatlines a moment. Nose wrinkling. 

“Can’t say that’s entirely good,” he says, “but obviously there’s worse.”

The Not-Bell-Pepper is empty of the small opaque fruits. Shiro wonders if it’d taste different cooked. He isn’t sure it’s worth the effort, but it could be. If the outer shell is edible, outside of the horrid taste, then they might just have to stomach it. 

More importantly, where did it come from? He scans the area. Not on any of the trees, though he does recognize the tree with the hard-shell-fruits. The vines are there. 

He stands, investigating all the flora around. The bushes don’t appear to yield the fruit. They’re just muted foliage with waxy leaves. 

Keith’s gaze rests on him, tangible, following his movements. 

Upturned earth catches his attention. The patches are small, dug up by little claws. The scavenger more than likely. It’s about the right size. He kneels, gazing around the area. Off to the right is a plant with large white, blue tinted leaves. The leaves are rounded near the stem and taper off into two points. There’s a pale green peeking out from between two of the leaves and Shiro awkwardly scoots forward. 

Nestled beneath the large leaves are more of the Not-Bell-Peppers. The plant grows like a watermelon or pumpkin along the ground. Thick stems and probably a solid root system. Shiro realizes that the Not-Bell-Pepper he snatched away from the beasts is a small one. They get much bigger. The biggest one is about the size of a cantaloupe. 

It comes off the stem with some wrestling. There’s no bite marks or puncturing of the outer skin. The color is more vibrant, but not deeper. Shiro presses his fingers against the skin, waiting until one of his fingers pushes through with a pop. The seeds are inside, larger and somehow more slimy. The skin of the seeds are more translucent. A strange cross between the milky white of an egg and an eyeball. 

It smells about the same. Has a more gelatinous texture in his mouth. But isn’t all that different than the younger variety. 

There’s about four to five of the Not-Bell-Peppers growing in the patch. 

A choking sound grabs his attention and his head whips around to find Keith with a wholly disgusted look on his face, the original Not-Bell-Pepper hanging from his hand and missing a piece. 

“You’re right, that’s terrible,” Keith says, spitting. “Ugh.”

Shiro rolls his eyes and motions him over.

Keith hovers behind him. The warmth from a body so close to his, foreign and inviting, teeters between making Shiro bristle and relaxing. He ignores the emotions and holds up one of the Egg-fruits. 

“Ugly,” Keith murmurs, fingers taking the offering. He appraises it, then goes ahead and sticks it in his mouth. “Can’t decide if the lack of taste is better or worse.”

A smile haunts Shiro’s lips, picking away at the corners of his mouth. Same page there, at least. They open a second Not-Bell-Pepper and consume the innards. Shiro watches the foliage around them. His gaze roams over the trees, the ground, catching on the Scale-Bats hovering in the trees. They climb with energy, squawking loudly. 

His gaze comes to rest on Keith. He’s staring off into the forest, expression hazy and unfocused. The quiet chewing. The fake relaxed crouch he’s in. The uneven slope of his shoulders, good to bad. 

Shiro reaches, instinct driving, for the shoulder wound. Keith reacts instantly, jerking away, and the movement is so quick that Shiro goes on the defensive, pulling back and a hair away from bearing his teeth at the other human. 

Keith brings his hands up, placating, trying to gentle his posture. “Quit startling me,” he says. 

The pulse inside of his skin tries to slow itself down. Shiro licks his lips, swallows, looks away. The twitchiness subsides, like water dying off his skin. 

“It’s just,” Keith pauses, gaze searching Shiro’s, “It’s weird to have someone messing with a wound.”

A stranger, Shiro understands.

Keith doesn’t trust him. 

He can’t fault him. 

“I guess you’d have to patch yourself up though,” Keith reasons, fingers absently touching the wounded shoulder. “But it’s not like we have medical supplies out here.”

“Infection,” Shiro says. 

“That is a risk,” Keith agrees. 

“I can help,” Shiro says, flat, sincere. 

Keith appears to be trying to fit words together, create a response. 

Shiro turns away, back to the Not-Bell-Peppers. “Think on it.”

There’s two left. Shiro breaks them off their vines and hands one to Keith. They’ll have to carry them, but it’ll be worth it. Keith takes the Not-Bell-Pepper, tucking it under his good arm. He’s gone quiet. Shiro lets him be. 

If Keith doesn’t think he’s dying, then Shiro won’t worry more than necessary. 

The sun is farther ahead of them, beginning its slow descent into sleep. Shiro hopes for a better area to bed down in. Something safer. More contained. The Not-Bell-Peppers were a lucky find. They’re satisfied for the moment. 

Ahead, on an incline, are the Four-Footed beasts. Their ears swivel in Shiro and Keith’s direction, but they look calm. Unconcerned. 

A small part of Shiro perks up at the sight of them. If they had to, they could take one of them down. But he’s not keen on that idea yet. They’re large, with solid looking builds, and he knows what those jaws can do. 

And there’s the silk thread of friendliness he feels towards them. 

The land begins a gentle descent. Shiro finds an opening in the ground, against the side of a rounded rise of earth. The concave is from a tree falling, the roots pulling up the ground and leaving a small pit in its wake. 

He steps down into it. It’s sheltered enough. 

Keith looks exhausted, skin pale and dull. Shiro watches him carefully ease himself down onto the ground. 

It’s colder than the previous night. Shiro’s breath fogs the area in front of him. The chill nips at his fingers, his nose. What season is the planet in? The guesses that he holds worry him. Nothing he can do, of course. 

He settles down a few feet from Keith, who seems to be half asleep already. He suspects the wounds are more of a problem than he wants to admit. They’re going to be slowed down more if they don’t get it under control.

But Shiro has zero interest in forcing Keith. That’ll end up a confrontation. One he doesn’t want. 

How does one build trust when they lack trust? 

One way is being the first to put their back to the cliff. Close their eyes and reach into the dark room. It goes against all instinct, all self-preservation. 

Shiro doesn’t know if he’s capable of doing so, anymore. 

But there’s a similar silk thread attached to Keith. Woven with strengthening pieces. It’s a part of him he’s come to ignore, to set high on a shelf where he doesn’t see it, doesn’t look at it forlornly or bitterly. 

It feels friendly, interested. 

It was the deciding factor in saving him.

Shiro worries it might be his downfall. 

The moon sits on the new horizon, bathing everything in its light. He sits up, closing his eyes as it falls upon his face. Familiar as it is foreign. Cradling him. Settles across his shoulders like heat in a cold room. 

He breathes deeper, easier. 

It brings that hollow ache that every moon does. The pins and needles inside of his muscles. The phantom sensation of something that is still there. 

He opens his eyes, staring out into the forest. His mind is far away, wandering aimlessly. 

A soft exhale behind him. 

There’s only two options for them. 

 

 

Shiro wakes before Keith. The sun is barely breaking into the sky, clawing its way from whatever places it gets sent to. 

He stretches, careful not to overexert any muscles. Works the soreness out best he can. His mouth feels dry, tongue sticking to the roof. He looks over at his companion, still dead to the world. 

Keith doesn’t look much better than the previous day. 

Shiro creeps closer, holding his breath. But he doesn’t wake. Keith sleeps curled up, hands tucked against his body to warm them. The cold must be affecting him. 

He almost leans forward, almost drops his head to scent Keith. He doesn’t though, able to pull back. There’s an itch in his palm, wanting to smooth the unruly hair from Keith’s face. Instead, he draws back and grabs their stash of Not-Bell-Peppers. He’d brought the skin of one they’d already eaten the inside of. 

It’s dried out a bit, feeling leathery. 

An idea occurs to Shiro and he decides to follow through while Keith is still asleep. He shrugs off his jacket, very carefully covers Keith with it. The latter doesn’t stir. Anxiety dusts his insides at the lack of response. 

He wavers for a moment, on if he should leave Keith alone or not, but if he succeeds then it’ll have been worth it. 

With last glance back, Shiro leaves. He sets out to the west, moving with the gentle swoop of hills. Everything is quiet. Quiet in the way that silence falls when something is expected. When you’re waiting, watching. You can’t hear it, but a hum can be felt. 

He pauses on a small ridge, tilts his head up, and draws a breath as deep as he can. Everything is faint. Like smells dampened by a scarf or a towel. There’s earth, always earth. Green earth, really. Soft, damp, fingers sinking into moss. Decay wrapped in life. 

So very different from the dry, dust taste of desert earth. Earth without water. Coating your skin, the inside of your nose. It’s all that can be tasted. 

The trees are there. Soft tendrils ranging from mild sweetness to popping tartness that sits underneath his tongue. He thinks of pines. He thinks of the white aspen. The bright green Palo Verde. 

His mind wants to make connections, to sort by familiarity, but everything is always new. Always unseen by him. Oh, the things he could tell people. The things he has seen. Has witnessed. The things he has experienced. 

All of it barely enjoyable. Introduced in the worst possible way. 

The old anger lurks deep inside his chest. Resting is somewhere hidden. 

Shiro brushes it off. Useless, pointless. 

The Scale-Bats begin to appear in the treetops. Quieter than yesterday, but slowly working up to their level of noise that Shiro remembered. He isn’t quite sure if they rose later today or if they just extended the morning silence. 

He meanders, pausing to try and catch a scent or a sound of what he’s looking for. The sound reaches him first, soft, a murmur. He freezes, slowing his breathing down. The location is further northwest. The rushing gets louder as he gets closer.

Nestled between trees and thin-leafed, lanky limbed bushes is a creek. Smaller than the previous one he found. But it has enough water to babble along the ground, winding between rocks, roots, and trees. 

With a surge of delight, he approaches the creek, only to halt feet from it. Something is weighing on him. Something isn’t right. His gaze flicks around the area quickly. The Scale-Bats are in the boughs above him, but they’re gathered in small groups, huddling together. They’re very quiet. 

There’s blood is on the other side of the creek, to his left. 

Adrenaline surges through his veins and without a sound, he crouches down. The only sound present is his pulse battering through his ears and chest. No movement. Nothing in his peripheral. It’s quiet. 

He peers back to the blood. It coats the ground, almost blending in to the forest floor. It’s the smudge on the pale rocks that gets his attention. It looks fresh still. Can’t be that old. 

Whatever the blood is from doesn’t appear to be around. Or, so he thought. When he gets closer to the blood, further out, passed the rocks, is part of a carcass. It takes him a moment to place the familiar serrated flesh.

The water predator from the pool. 

He freezes, gaze scanning the area once more. There’s no sign of any predator. There’s drag marks but no tracks left from whatever thing killed it. He fears, for a few seconds, the worst answer. The damning answer. That they’ve caught up.

But there would be tracks. There would be sound. There’s no reason for them to be silent. 

Relief is small, but present. 

Whatever did this seems to have moved on. The Scale-Bats in the tree branches have begun to fidget more openly, scooting away from their community clusters. Shiro watches them a moment more before straightening up, muscles still tense. 

He steps over the creek, approaching the chunk of carcass. It’s from the side of the beast, thick leathery skin torn. One of the front legs is still attached, limp, useless. Claws missing like nails popped off from trying to dig into concrete. Bone sticks out, snapped, frayed like the end of a broken branch. Puncture wounds ooze, dug deep into tissue that’s milky red. 

Bitten off. Jaws and bodily strength to rip a section of the beasts body off. 

There’s a sticky, black molasses substance seeped into the meat of the beast. It smells oily, nauseating. It must be strong for him to smell it and not be an inch from the source. 

Better to not touch. 

One more look is spared, then Shiro focuses on the brook. The bottom is rocks dressed in moss, swaying with the current. He crouches, cupping water into his hand. There’s no red flag in the scent. It tastes fine, clean, cold. Not as cold as the creek he’d seen. 

It’s filling, takes all his resolve to not over drink. Not to drink too fast. 

The landscape doesn’t seem to be lacking in regards to water. Hope kindles inside of him, small, fragile. 

He wipes the excess water off his face. Now that the adrenaline is gone, the chill in the air sticks to his skin, burrows deep. He tests the hollowed out Not-Bell-Pepper in the brook. The water seems to hold. 

It might taste a little sour, but it’ll be water. 

Shiro stands, careful to not spill any of the water. The smooth outside becomes slippery and it’d be his luck to trip or have it slide right through his fingers.

The closer he gets to where he left Keith, the more eager he becomes, bearing his prize. This will help. It was worth it. 

Keith is awake when he returns, awake and sitting up. Shiro beams for only a moment, ready to show off what he brought, but the expression on Keith’s face stops him. His own expression flattens out, becomes uncertain.

His return is met with a blanket of anxiety. Anxiety laced with a temper. 

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” The tone is sharp, edged. It matches the hardened look in Keith’s eyes.

Shiro stands, weight shifting to one foot, eyebrows furrowed. He dips his head, motioning to his shoulder.

“It doesn’t matter,” Keith snaps, leaning forward on his hands. “You should have woken me up.”

They stare at each other. Shiro holding the Not-Bell-Pepper, cold numbing the top layer of his skin. 

Keith runs a hand over his face. “Where did you even go?”

Shiro hesitates then holds the Not-Bell-Pepper up. 

“You… found more?”

He moves closer, trying to tilt the makeshift water holder enough that Keith can see the liquid inside.

The remains of a fire-forged temper dissipate. “Water?” Keith asks.

Once he’s within reaching distance, Shiro holds the Not-Bell-Pepper out. 

Hesitation stalls Keith’s reach. He follows through and takes the Not-Bell-Pepper from Shiro, holding the odd water carrier up to his nose and mouth. A slight wrinkle on the bridge of his nose, it probably does smell sour, and he presses the uneven edge against his lips.

Three gulps in with no pause makes Shiro want to snatch it from his hands and force him to slow down. The feeling is short lived when Keith pauses. 

“Ugh, that sour taste is strong,” Keith says. “The skin is potent.”

Shiro shrugs, corners of his mouth tilting upwards. 

Keith clears his throat, gaze flickering away from Shiro. “... thanks,” he says. 

Emotion, pulled thin, smooth, creeps its way into his ribcage. Shoulders dropping as tension drips out. 

He almost reaches out to help Keith as he struggles to his feet, but the motion is quickly aborted. There’s a slight wobble before he catches his balance. 

Shiro watches him closely, notes that his skin is still dull. The tightness in his frame. The subtle way he keeps favoring his shoulder. The pain must be high. 

Keith holds the jacket out to Shiro. “Here.”

It’s cold, but nothing unbearable yet, so he shakes his head. 

Keith’s brows draw downwards. “Shiro.”

“Fine,” Shiro says, trying to thread sincerity into his tone, “I‘m good.”

“I’m not fragile,” Keith says, holding the jacket out further. 

The simmering has returned to Keith’s gaze. It’s there, building, daring. Shiro hesitates, confused as to why his instincts are split between bullying Keith into keeping the jacket and accepting it with an unknown source of pride. 

“No,” Shiro says, slowly reaching out and pushing Keith’s arm back towards him, “Your shoulder.”

Keith looks like he’s about to settle in for a fight, so Shiro turns away with a huff, and retreats. 

“Wait,” Keith calls out.

He ignores him, scooping up their remaining Not-Bell-Peppers. Maybe he should consider expending the energy to hunt something down, give them a substantial meal. Luck will determine that one. If the only things they run across are big with a strong hunting sense, then that’s going to be a no. 

Keith is stumbling after him. “Don’t ignore me.”

With Keith’s injury, the need for substantial sustenance is necessary. Though, he probably can’t digest anything raw. Which, really, is a problem. Shiro hasn’t worried about that in quite some time. 

He’ll have to think about that. 

“Hey!”

The obvious answer is to cook it. Not impossible. A hassle, sure, but still doable. 

Shiro pauses, looking through the trees and scrawny foliage. His mind adjusts the tentative compass and mental map he’s been keeping. They need to continue north east from here. 

There’s a muttered “Fine” behind him, followed by a softer “Fuck”, and the sound of rustling. Shiro lets his peripheral sneak a glance and keith’s adjusting the jacket on his shoulders. 

That foreign, bizarre warmth is festering inside of him again. 

Keith pushes his bangs to the side. “Where are we going?”

“Lake,” Shiro reminds him. 

“You saw a lake?” 

“Yes.” He starts moving again. “Water. Food. Good goal.”

He can actively hear the gears in Keith’s head turning as he chews it over. Nothing else is offered, but if Shiro has learned one thing about Keith, in this short amount of time, it’s that he has the ability to relentlessly pursue something. 

They pass through a cluster of tall, many branched trees. It’s strangely quiet. Shiro almost misses it, but there by one of the trees is a Four Pawed fruit eater. He glances at it, noting how still it is. 

Almost as if hiding. 

His arm swings back, stopping Keith in his tracks, muscles tensing. 

Keith halts, energy growing serious. 

He scouts the area, but there’s nothing. No signs of a predator. The bushes and foliage are lighter here, barely any hiding spots. Nothing seems amiss. Yet, something feels wrong. 

“Wha-”

Shiro cuts him off with a press of his arm. Even if it’s soft, he doesn’t want any more attention drawn to them. 

The Four Pawed beast is still where it was, not having moved an inch, not even a muscle. Shiro looks at it, ears forward, alert, gaze drawn upwar-

His head snaps up into the treetops. 

It’s easily missed on first glance. Situated among the branches of the trees is a beast about his size, maybe a bit bigger, with a long, long head. A hunter's set of claws. Robust bat-like wings. It’s fur, feathers maybe, are nearly the same color as the tree bark. 

It’s looking straight back at him. 

The mouth opens, gaping with jagged teeth.

“Oh shit,” Keith says. 

The sound that spills from its maw is a bellow, a whined tapered bellow that sets Shiro on edge. 

He bears his teeth, but knows better. 

It launches itself.


End file.
